


Pot of Tea, Cheese Sandwich

by sopdetly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anonymous POV, M/M, Other, POV First Person, Pre-Sirius Black in Azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sopdetly/pseuds/sopdetly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His brain must be finely-tuned clockwork, I think as the young man arrives. Three-fifteen on the dot, never three-fourteen or three-sixteen. Every Tuesday and Wednesday, for the past three months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pot of Tea, Cheese Sandwich

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally in 2008, moved here now as it's one of my personal favorites/best. Stepped a bit to the side of my usual, and I hope you enjoy the result.

His brain must be finely-tuned clockwork, I think as the young man arrives. Three-fifteen on the dot, never three-fourteen or three-sixteen. Every Tuesday and Wednesday, for the past three months. 

The tea shop is popular, in its own unpopular way. It's not located on any main thruways, doesn't publish ads in the paper. The clientèle is eclectic, tending towards artists and students and other sorts of the generally unproductive layabouts of my generation. I sometimes sit at my table next to the window and wonder if I'm the only person who can't spend all day reading and people-watching because I have a job.

Maybe he has a job. I don't think it pays well, or else his coat wouldn't be starting to rub too thin at the elbows. But at least it would be employment. I hope he has a job. He's roughly the same age as the rest of us, but there's something old about him. Aged and wise.

It's raining today, not that that's anything unusual in London, but there's an extra scent on the air that I can't identify. And that bothers me, makes me uncomfortable because I don't know why. I don't like not knowing why I feel things. 

He's at the counter, waiting for the group of teenagers in front of him to quit arguing among themselves and pick their pastries. He already knows what he's going to get. Pot of tea and a cheese sandwich. It's the cheapest combination of food that can still satisfy a hungry belly; I've been tempted to tell the person at the till to include in a raspberry tart with his order more than a few times, but in the end I decide that being an anonymous benefactor simply won't do. I don't want to be anonymous to him.

And what if he didn't like raspberry?

I always wonder if he notices that I'm here every time he's here. Does he think I do it on purpose? I don't think I do; after all, I'm here when he's not here as well. But I don't always come in on Mondays or Fridays, and my weekend visits are spotty at best. Tuesdays and Wednesdays, though, are to be changed only in extreme cases. I try to tell myself it's because the cook on these days is far superior, but I'm really here for him.

He's paying now, counting out the pound notes and finding himself forced to make up the remainder in coins. My legs twitch, eager to rise and offer a small donation in the admirable cause of tea. I remain seated.

Now he settles in at an empty table; unlike me he doesn't tend to grab a specific one, though I have seen that he prefers the back of the shop to the front. I always wonder why, since even on a grey day like this one the lighting is so much better near the windows. And he always has his books. Thick, old books, books that look fascinating and confounding and make me wonder if he's a librarian or a researcher or a professor. No, too young to be a professor. Maybe a student, working on his doctorate or something. He's smart, though, that much I'm certain of. No, “of that much I'm certain.” He doesn't know that he's made me grammar-conscious, even in my thoughts.

I don't know how long he stays. I leave most days after he's been there for fifteen minutes, though one day I was able to stay until nearly four and he hadn't yet left.

Today the time passes far too quickly, and I drain the last of my tea and rise with a reluctance that has little to do with returning to the wetness outside.

* * *

He's not here today.

I'm trying not to panic, but it's three-twenty on Tuesday and he's nowhere to be found. Something is wrong. 

My mind tries to reassure me, tries to calm me. It's March, it's likely he's just sick. Undoubtedly he has friends to take care of him. Family. Maybe a lover, as much as the idea is a kick to my gut. 

I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow.

* * *

He's not back and I can't handle it. Some vaguely recognised part of my mind attempts to tell me that this is becoming an obsession, all over a boy whose name I don't even know, but I don't care about obsessions, not right now when it's two days in a row and I just know that something is wrong.

The man at the till today looks at me with a blank face as I ask him, in words that aren't nearly as awkward as they should be, if he knows where the honey-haired young man is, the one with all the books and the pot of tea and cheese sandwich.

He doesn't know who I'm talking about. I nearly ask how that's possible, how it is possible not to notice such a reliable customer, but I bite my tongue before I get the police called on me for stalking. I thank him for his help and retreat to my table, finish my tea and sandwich and try not to look back at the sad, empty tables in the dimness of the shop.

I hope everything's okay.

* * *

It's three-thirteen and I'm running through possible scenarios in my mind. Reasons not to panic if he doesn't show again. His schedule at work changed, and now he comes at a different time, or different days. He got a promotion and can afford far better tea than this fare. He got a new job and isn't in the area anymore. He moved house. He realised I was staring and...

No. Can't be that one.

I brought my own book today, an ancient anthology of Shakespeare that's heavy and the pages are flaking from old age and it's ridiculously awkward to carry down busy London streets as I dodge raindrops, but maybe it will catch his attention. He seems like a Shakespeare type.

The second hand on my watch ticks out its rhythm with a tympanic echo to my eager ears, counting the beats until he arrives. He will arrive. 

Three-fifteen...ten seconds...twenty-five...thirty-five...

And then he walks in, three-fifteen and forty-two seconds. I try to keep my sigh of relief to myself, but I don't think I'm successful, judging by the way the woman sitting two tables over glances at me. But I don't think I care. He's back, he's all right. He doesn't seem to notice me, but that's okay. I have been given another chance, and this time I won't stay anonymous. Nothing today; I need to think this through so I don't mess it up.

I am late to return to work.

* * *

A little schedule-shifting with someone else at the office and I am able to be in line at three-fifteen when he arrives. I make a show of considering what to order, letting a woman and her two kids go before me, so that he is right behind me and can easily hear me request his standard order. He looks sideways at me, one corner of his mouth lifting just so slightly. 

When he orders the same thing with a soft chuckle, I feign surprise and amusement, though the bloke behind the counter gives me a narrow glance and I think he's onto me. I take my food and pay and with a smile of acknowledgment to the object of my affection I head to my normal table. 

Play hard to get. Make him wonder.

I try not to flush when I see him glance my way before he heads to the back.

* * *

Six days later; I have already finished my food when he arrives today and am nearing the end of my drink. He sees me as he walks in and nods in greeting.

My co-workers comment on my much-improved mood when I return that afternoon.

* * *

“Pardon me, there's no sugar at my table, could I borrow yours?”

I'd seen him coming, so I don't react too badly. I didn't expect sugar to be his purpose though. He pushes a bit of flyaway hair out of his eyes, and I think that it was better the other way.

“Oh, sure, no problem.” I am proud of myself, being cool and collected and not letting my fingers shake as I hand him the little pot of sugar.

He nods. “Thanks.” He spoons two scoops into his tea, nods again, and walks back to his table as he stirs it, his long fingers spinning the spoon with a practiced ease. I watch him retreat, and take note of at least four empty tables he's passing that all have sugar jars.

I bite my lip from grinning too widely.

* * *

Five weeks past his mysterious absence and his attendance has been perfect ever since. I don't really even worry about it anymore, giving it no more thought than I do the rest of him. Admittedly, that's not saying much.

We have exchanged a few more words since Sugar Day. He commented on my book, asked if I'd read other books by the same author. I lied and said I haven't, and he recommended another one to me. I felt warm inside to know that he had just recommended my favourite book to me. We share the same taste. Progress, progress.

He never sits anywhere else, though. Our exchanges are brief as he comes in before making his purchase, or while he goes on a quest for napkins. I have not yet dared to take the initiative. 

But maybe I will today.

I'm trying to work up the courage to get up and go talk to him when a loud noise breaks the peace of the shop. A motorbike has just pulled up to the curb, and a flash bloke is heading inside. I've never seen him here before, but I figure he's going to meet up with the group of starving actors who are quietly rehearsing a scene.

He stops just inside the door, obviously looking for the people he wants to meet, and a smile of recognition lights his face. He starts walking...

...past the students and towards my mysterious, some-day lover. My eyes narrow as this prat pulls out the chair across from him and sits down without even asking. He doesn't look like the sort who would be friends with such a quiet, studious boy; surely he'd be bored within minutes and he'd be far too much trouble to deal with.

I brought a magazine today, and I use it to disguise my more blatant staring as I watch the two interact. His face, my love's face, is open and smiling; the intruder is leaning close and speaking low. The hand peeking out from a leather sleeve reaches over to gently rest on the jumper-clad arm, and with a crushing jolt in my gut I know that I never had a shot. He's been taken all this time.

I feel like a fool, and as I stand up hastily my magazine knocks my teacup to the floor, shattering it and spilling the dregs. Everyone is staring at me, I'm sure, but I'm only aware of a pair of soft, muddy brown eyes watching me, and even without looking back I can feel the pity in their gaze. 

My stomach twists and I know I have to leave immediately. I hurry to apologize to the employee who has rushed to my side and offer to pay for the cup, but she brushes me off, telling me not to worry. I still drop a few pound notes on my table, hoping no one snatches it before the waitstaff can find it, and grab my belongings and leave without looking back.

* * *

I don't dare return to that shop on a Tuesday or Wednesday for a long time. I'm too worried that he won't be there, or maybe that he will be there. I even manage to find a new tea shop to frequent, and before long I don't ever visit that part of the city. 

But one day in early November a couple years later, I find myself returned; the new shop is closed because the entire street is shut down due to a gas explosion, and it's the only other place I can think of on such short notice.

I don't expect to see him; I don't even think about him. Which is why I don't really notice until later that he walked in at three-nineteen. The shop is more crowded these days, though I doubt that's due to the closed street, given that the two places aren't really near each other enough to be the obvious gathering point for the exodus. 

The end result is that there are no seats in the back, and when he finishes paying there are no empty tables at all. He looks around, biting his bottom lip, and I hold my breath as his eyes alight on me. I smile and nod to the empty chair across from me, and with only a moment of hesitation he nods back and walks over. I notice that he's misaligned the buttons on his shirt; he's off by one and the collar bunches in the curve of his neck.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “It never used to be this crowded here...”

“I know, I was surprised to see it so busy.” I'm making small talk with him. My stomach has relocated to my shoes. 

“You stopped coming here.”

I press my lips together, then decide to blunder on carelessly with the truth. “I didn't have much reason to anymore.”

He looks down at his plate, picking at the crust of his sandwich. “I...”

“It's okay.” I don't want him to feel badly. 

He takes a deep breath, a long, shuddering breath that says more than all the words in the world about a sadness that has gripped him. Yes, now I can see it in his eyes. Then he blinks and it's gone, and I wonder if it was ever really there.

“So,” he asks, picking up his tea and taking a careful sip, “what's your name?”

I don't actually make it back to work that day.


End file.
